The Soldier and the Dragon
by BibliophileLove08
Summary: AU- An adaption of Beauty and the Beast where Sherlock is the beast (got the idea from Smaug). Please read and review. 3
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: So I got the idea into my head to do a remake of Beauty and the Beast, using Sherlock and John. This is going to be a slow building story, just so you're prepared. It will have violent moments, and I will most certainly earn the M rating, so if you're not into that then turn away now. You have been warned. **

**I might have a little trouble keeping them in character for this project, for the purposes of recreating this as an adaption of Beauty and the Beast, but I will damn sure try my hardest. I love the characters of John and Sherlock and it's hard to do them justice (especially Sherlock). **

**The beginning chapters will also be a little short, but they will get longer as the story progresses, I promise. I have a few chapters written out already and I will most likely update every Monday and Friday. I feel as though it is implied, but I'll mention it anyway. Reviews are very much appreciated. Thank you in advance. **

**One more thing, I do not have a beta. Any mistakes are my own fault, and I apologize for them. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own these characters blah blah blah. (Be happy I remembered the disclaimer at all.)**

**Chapter One**

The rancid stench of piss and beer followed John relentlessly as he walked, lingering and coating his hair and clothes. The steadily dimming lights of the pub behind him lit up the ground for him as he stepped carefully along the path, skittering over small stones as he began to lose the helpful glow. The noise faded along with the light, a welcome heavy silence sneaking in in it's place.

Tall pines and oaks stood still above him, their twisting branches sheltering him from the small patches of the lingering light of the stars as though they were doing him a favor. Their eerie creaking settled over him ominously, complaining as a breeze pushed them against each other in the darkness. The air was chilled, too cool for so early in the fall. John pulled his coat more tightly around him, watching as his breath fogged in front of his face. He quickened his pace nervously.

His shoulder ached with increased fervor as he strode through the woods in the direction of his cabin. The small space beckoned him, promising a warm hearth, hot tea, and a cold, lonely bed. His mouth twisted down into a pained grimace as he stubbornly reinforced the feeling of contentment. He was not lonely. He was not unhappy. He was fine.

"_John, I know you're not doing well. Frankly, it's becoming more obvious every time I see you. Have you tried to reenlist? Perhaps use your skills in a non-combat zone or-"_

"_They won't take me, Mike. I've tried. 'Not physically fit for duty' they say." John replied, taking a deep swallow of the pint before slamming it onto the the table bitterly, while pointedly ignoring his friends pitying expression._

The darkness was complete now, an inky black that surrounded him, attempting to suffocate him with it's thickness. On the contrary, he found the quiet gloom to be a relief to the stifling heat and stench of the crowd in the pub. He knew this darkness, it was familiar and comforting. The beaten path under his feet weilded to him obediently, every bend and dip remained exactly where he had remembered it to be. He didn't need to see the rotting pine across the dirt to step over it. He knew that the glow of eyes in the dark was merely an owl, blinking at him without interest. The sound of rustling leaves didn't startle him, as he knew it was only the breeze stirring the dead foliage in the air.

"_Well, something else then? Surely there is something? What about the city guard? They could probably use a doctor, even if it's just on an as needed basis. Pulling out arrow's and whatnot?" Mike offered, not bothering to smother the desperation in his tone._

"_I live too far from the city. It takes hours by foot, less by horse but even minutes could mean life or death. They would die waiting on me." He murmured, resigned. _

Thick green moss dampened the sound of his boots as he walked, the set of his shoulders stiff with leftover grievance from dinner. There was a heavy feeling in the air, humid and charged, with the threat of incoming rain. Soon the dirt beneath his feet would turn to mud, and instead of the dust covering his calves there would be gritty splashes of wet earth. The dry leaves would become heavy with drops of water, unable to continue clinging weakly to their branches. They would fall, littering the ground and leaving no barrier between him and the light of the moon filtering through the clouds. John only hoped that the rain would be patient and allow him time to reach the cabin before it assaulted the earth.

"_Then leave that blasted cabin to rot and come stay with me! I have a spare room John, we could-"_

"_I believe I'm done for the night, Mike. It's a long walk home and it's already late. I'll see you next week, yeah? I'll buy. My pension will have arrived by then." Mike's protests were drowned out by the sound of his chair scraping loudly across the dirty wooden floor. John jerked his chin down in a quick, silent goodbye before he walked away with jerking movements, the need to escape the confines of the loud pub becoming unbearable. He could feel Mike's eyes on his back as he retreated shamefully. _

He continued to walk, his arms wrapped tightly around his own torso in an attempt to keep the cold at bay. Each huff of breath fogged about his face, each stirring of the air around him ruffled his short hair. He was still a while from his cabin, and his shoulder ached in complaint at the thought. It occurred to him again that the air was much too cold for early fall. Had it been this cold earlier, on his trek to the pub? No, not that he could recall.

A fox yipped somewhere nearby as he stepped absently over damp patch of earth. It wouldn't do for him to slip and fall, not with the air this chilled and the temperature only dropping. The thought of laying unconscious in the dark, helpless and easy prey for the animals of the night filled him with caution, and an inspiration to pay extra attention to his feet. Though the path was familiar, the woods were treacherous and often had a mind of their own. John had no delusions that he was the master of these trees. He was merely a passenger, allowed to tread through their depths. They could turn easily, and John would be powerless against their will.

He reached for the comforting weight of the pistol at his back, tucked carefully into his trousers with practice. A gust of wind stirred him, dry leaves rustled and were ripped from the branches so high above his head. The undergrowth around his legs came alive with purpose, and that purpose was to unsettle him and chase away his previous confidence.

His familiar woods were suddenly sinister and mocking, chastising him for his misplaced bravado. He slowed, coming to a stop as he strained his ears, listening to the voice of the trees. His fingers lingered on the but of his gun as he stilled, taking comfort in the metal as a child would in a blanket in the dark. He knew this forest. He had grown up here, wandering it's depths and exploring it's secrets. He knew the sound of the squirrels as they chattered and scattered up the trees. He knew the slide of a snake across the leaves, and the sharp tap of a woodpecker as it jabbed it's beak into the wood. He knew the smell of the earth in the spring, and the individual wildflowers that littered along the base of the pines.

He _did not_ know the agonizingly unfamiliar sound in the distance, disturbing the air in a steady rhythm. _Thud, thud, thud. _

John's breath stilled, even as his heart pounded faster. His body was suddenly alive and hyperaware of his surroundings. Everything had gone quiet, the fickle breeze had ceased, the buzz of crickets had been silenced, the fox was cowering somewhere in the dark. The only sound was the _thud, thud, thud_, as it gained volume, coming ever closer to John's frozen body on the path.

He no longer felt the cold as blood rushed through his body, adrenaline leaving him breathless and full of itching energy. Resisting the urge to bolt, he forced himself to remain still and silent as he listened to the noise coming from somewhere in the blackness. _Thud, thud, thud. _

The sound was becoming so loud that he could psychically feel the air being disturbed around him. The trees and bushes around him rustled, but not with a natural wind. Whatever was coming towards him, it was large, large enough to create a wind with enough strength to bring the forest around him to life with motion. _Thud, thud, thud._

A loud crack of wood breaking finally pushed John into a flurry of motion. He turned away from the sound, heedless of the path as he simultaneously pulled his pistol from his trousers. He burst through the undergrowth, scrambling over tree roots and briar bushes as he fled from the noise. The thudding had ceased, but the sound of tree's being torn apart and some massive creature ripping through the earth had him gasping, the instinct of self preservation pushing his body away, away from the unknown beast.

He fell in his haste, once, twice, a third time. Sharp branches and rocks in the earth cut at him, leaving him bleeding in various places that he could not feel. The pain would come later, after the flight. If he survived whatever seemed to be pursuing him. Panting, he tried to turn, to angle his ear towards the sound as he ran, only to be assaulted with a defining roar so guttural that it made his very bones resonate. Unable to stop himself, he cried out with terror as another burst of adrenaline rocketed through him, pushing him faster still.

Whatever was behind him was not only large and powerful enough to snap tree's and shake the ground beneath his feet, but it was _angry. Very angry. _

In his blind haste, John tripped over a root and went sprawling across the uneven forest floor, knocking his head against something hard and unyielding as he collided with the earth. His pistol went flying through his hand, hidden by the dark as it thudded across the ground and out of reach. John blinked, unable to tell if his lack of vision was from the collision or because of the absolute blackness around him. The sound in his ears seemed muffled, and he sluggishly brought a hand to the side of his head to feel warm, wet blood pouring from the point of impact. His internal sense of balance was compromised, the ground swayed underneath him and he felt dizzy and sick. His army training dimly informed him that he was probably going to black out, and he would be lying here helpless in the cold when the monster came upon him. He vaguely wondered if anyone would ever find his body, with as far as he had run from the path.

Then the shaking ground went still, and all sound ceased as he lay spawned on his back, staring up at the tree tops above him. The last thing he felt was the heavy _thud, thud, thud,_ in the air, and the solid weight of his own body upon the damp earth.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Flickering images scampered across John's consciousness, like dappled sunlight through the thick spring leaves of an old oak tree. Each was fleeting, coming and going before he could grab hold and cling to it tightly, using it as leverage to assure his unconscious mind of its wellbeing. Trying to hold them captive was like trying to cup water in his hands, no matter how tightly his fingers cupped themselves around the cool liquid, it always trickled through and escaped.

Visions of Harry, years ago before he shipped off to the army, her red eyes tight as she pulled him in for a hug. A mental picture of his cabin, with it's old wooden walls and dirty stone floor, the creaky rocking chair and crumbling fireplace. The small pile of blankets in the corner that made up his bed, the chamber pot shoved up against the opposite wall.

His parents tombstones, bereft of flowers, with weeds creeping up on the graves with no one to tend to them. Mike's deceptively cheerful face, smiling over the top of his pint as they sat for dinner every weekend when John went into town for supplies.

And strange, nonsensical things such as a broken cup on the floor of his childhood home, letters carved into a tree, words that he couldn't understand. A bird with a broken wing, hobbling along the side of the river that John used to swim in as a young boy. The first taste of stolen beer on his tongue, and windows longer than he was tall rising up, with the light of the moon so bright upon them that the surface reflected only the images put in front of them, hiding the contents behind them from view.

Then there were more solid memories, such as the faces of his comrades in arms as they sat around a campfire in the wilderness, laughing and telling stories of home. The visions became sharper and more focused, and he was taken through one of their many missions overseas, his body heavy with gear as they trekked through a treacherous forest in enemy territory.

There were the sounds of gunshots and men screaming, voices barking orders and other voices crying and begging helplessly as fingers grabbed at John, digging into him painfully as they gripped him. He tried to shake his head, to pry the hands away from him as he ordered them to be still so he could treat them, but the fingers only held harder. Sharp pains flared all over his body and he cried out, screaming as he jolted to awareness, rising from his prone position to blink at the darkness around him.

He was in a room, a large space, bigger than his entire cabin. The floor and walls were smooth stone, and there were thick bear skins upon the floor. He was sitting on a bed, with cotton blankets stretched over him and a fire roaring soothingly in the fireplace on the other side of the room. John could feel it's heat on his sweat damp skin.

There were no windows, giving John no indication of what time it was, or even what day. Flickering lamps were bracketed to the walls, giving plenty of light to see the skins and artfully woven tapestries decorating the wide stone walls. Depictions of war, of men riding horses into battle and brandishing ancient swords captivated his eye for a few seconds before he tore his gaze away.

For a brief moment he thought someone had brought him to the castle in the city, as surely that was the only place to have rooms as grand as this, but upon remembering the reasons for his current condition, he dismissed the idea.

His head ached fiercely. Gently, he brought his fingers to the wound on the side of his skull, wincing as he felt the dried blood. Another mental check over his body found numerous aches and pains, particularly on his shins and forearms from where he repeatedly fell, with cuts and bruises covering his skin. His clothes were ripped and dirty, with splotches of blood from his wounds.

But though he was thoroughly roughed up, he seemed to be in full working order. Taking another look around, he suddenly wondered who his host was, who had pulled him from the forest floor and taken him into the shelter of their home. Stifling a groan, he pulled the covers back and swung his legs over the side of the bed, setting his feet on the floor tenderly. The stone was clean, clearly regularly swept and treated. There was a plush armchair next to his bed, as though someone had sat and watched him while he slept. The seat was cold. Whoever had been there, had gone long ago.

John took a breath and stood, testing his balance. He swayed momentarily, but remained standing after a moment to right himself. Whoever had brought him to the castle and placed him in bed hadn't bothered to remove his clothes or dress his wounds. Someone without medical knowledge, then?

His boots were silent on the stone as he walked slowly, carefully across the room to it's only door. It was thick and wooden, and swung easily on massive, well oiled hinges. John crept through, taking in the long hallway that stretched out on either side. He must be in a castle! There was no other place it could be, with such grand structure. Wooden beams arched overhead, each bigger around than his torso. More bracketed oil lamps lined the walls, lighting the way down the hall on each side, while woven rugs stretched down it's length. John looked to either side and chose to go left, walking slowly in silence.

Where was everyone? Surely a place so massive and well kept required staff? There must be a servant nearby that he could question. He stubbornly ignored the pounding in his head and the ache of his limbs as he walked, knowing that his condition was not serious. He was most certainly dehydrated, and could benefit from a hot meal, but his vision was clear and his mind was working unhindered. His injuries could wait a little while longer, while he solved the mystery of his location.

There were other doors along the hall, John put his ear to some of them, listening for any noise or suggestion of occupancy, but all were silent. When he rounded a corner and found a wide, curving staircase he gasped at its magnificence, at its wide polished steps and waxed banisters. Cautious and in awe, he started down the staircase in search of someone, anyone, who could answer his questions. When he rounded the stone wall and came to the bottom he could only gape at the elegant landing, the large high ceilings and massive windows, taller than three men combined.

He was drawn to the windows, eager to see the view beyond. The moon shone brightly, from it's position in the sky John assumed that it was very early morning, and that the sun would rise in mere hours. He was still unsure if he had been asleep for half an hour or an entire day.

As he neared the translucent glass, he gasped aloud. The sight before him was stunning, and captivated him completely. The castle was larger, much larger, than he had originally anticipated. He was not in the city as he had briefly suspected. This massive structure put the city castle to shame.

He was on the second floor, or third, it was hard to tell. The high stone walls rose around, towers and parapets rising far above his head. There were obviously more floors above him, and the structure as a whole seemed to go on for over a mile. The dark grey stone and arching windows suggested hundreds of rooms, and that was only what he could see from this side!

The gardens stretched out before the window he looked out of, a neatly manicured lawn gleamed in the light of the bright moon. High walls separated the grounds from the dark forest beyond, the tops of trees going on for miles and miles. John could see no other hint of civilization in the distance.

He stood, transfixed by the sight. Whoever was master of this estate must be someone very important indeed. John felt suddenly insecure at his state of dress, his hand lingering up to the caked blood and grime on the side of his face and head. Surely they would not think poorly of him, after having rescued him from the forest floor?

At the thought, John wondered what became of the beast pursuing him. Was it still out there, hiding in the trees for unsuspecting travelers to wander across it's path? He gazed pensively out at the silent, still forest as he remembered the roar, the painful thudding in the air. A shiver ran over him as he imagined whatever fate he had so unwittingly escaped.

So lost was he in his musings that he almost didn't hear the faint noise from behind. Silent as it was in the cavernous room, the minute sound echoed, thrumming in John's ears and causing a sharp turn about, eyes scanning the gloom as a a cloud passed over the moon, casting him in shadow. There was a hall to his left, opposite the staircase he had descended from. The flickering light of the oil lamps hid any movement, so alive was the light, but John could distinctly hear a subtle noise coming from it's depths.

With a no small amount of caution, and maybe a small amount of fear, he padded silently across the spotless stone floor and into the hallway, listening intently. It was a tinkling noise, as if small pieces of glass were clinking together gently. Someone was moving about, certainly. Perhaps John would finally gain the answers he sought?

There were more door's along the hall, but it was the open door at the end that held his attention so effortlessly. The bright light of a fire coming through the open crack was telling, as was the shadow moving across the beam of light occasionally. John was suddenly nervous, licking dry lips to wet them as he heaved a silent breath to steady himself. His fingers brushed the polished wood of the door and hesitated, then pushed gently. What he saw took his breath away with a rush.

The room was not barren like the one that John had woken in, but full of strange objects and devices that John had no name for. The walls were lined with shelves, full of books and glasses containing various unknown substances. Where there were no shelves, there were papers stuck to the wall, papers with writings and drawings and diagrams that left John baffled.

In the center of the busy room was a long table, on which occupied what seemed to be a chemists set. A tall figure stood with his back to John, facing the fire and tinkering with glass vials on a table the front of him. The man seemed strangely misshapen, with sharp ridges where there should have been softer angles to his form. What at first John thought was wild unkempt hair, he discovered upon closer inspection, seemed to be seemed to be some sort of cap or helmet, covered with spikes and ridges.

He seemed to be clothed, but with the light casting his frame in shadow it was hard to tell. His form was long and lean, with sharp points at this shoulders and accompanied by jerking movements as though he was highly irritated. But it was the noise he made that brought John to pause, voice suddenly seizing in his throat. The growl. That same vicious growl of the creature in the forest.

An arm shot out in a violent outburst, wrecking vials of potions on the table and sending the delicate glass pieces crashing to the floor. John had a mere moment to take in the arm, unnaturally thin and bony, and the hand that completed it, long fingers with supernatural claws tipping their ends, before he let out the gasp that would enable his discovery.

The man, the creature, turned and laid wide, startled eyes upon him. Two pairs of eyes locked in an unrelenting exposure of what was surely never meant to be seen. He was a monster, there was no other word for it. What John had thought was a helmet or headgear of some sort, was simply his head. Instead of hair, there were spikes, made of what appeared to be hard scales, or black bone. His face, wide with what appeared to be horror, was inhumanly shaped. His nose and mouth were slightly elongated, just enough so that at a farther distance he could have been mistaken for a normal man.

The few feet between them did nothing to hide the truth from John. Most of his face seemed pale, the skin of a man, while the edges of his chin and jaw were darker, skin turning hard and reptilian. John could now see that he was indeed clothed, in fine leather trousers and knee high soft souled boots, with a clean white cotton shirt. The stings at his throat were left untied, leaving the hollow of his throat bare to inspection, and John could see that the tentative reptilian skin was not merely on his jaw.

And even as John watched, he changed, becoming more deformed, more monstrous. The spines on his head and the back of his neck became longer and sharper, his claws grew until his hands were scaly appendages straight out of nightmares. His face, now contorted with rage, elongated and his mouth opened in a snarl, baring sharp teeth that no mere human mouth would accommodate.

John turned and attempted to flee, but before he could take two steps the creature was upon him. The hard line of his body pressed against John's back as those impossibly long arms encased him, unweilding as John tried to struggle desperately against his hold. A low growl erupted from the creatures chest, reverberating through John through the close contact. Claws as long as human fingers gripped at him, piercing his shirt as they held him immobile.

John was not willing to give up without a fight, however, and rebelliously continued to struggle. The growl intensified and he was lifted up off of the floor, his feet swinging helplessly as he fought. The creature started to carry him briskly down the hall as John squirmed, grunting with the effort. The arms were like iron bars around him, the claws like knives. In his struggle, he unintentionally pressed into the claws on one hand and they puncture the skin over his ribs, slicing through his flesh like butter. John cried out, tears pricking his eyes at the pain. He only increased his struggle.

The creature was practically running now, down the hall and into another, down a staircase into a darker part of the castle. The lamps were fewer, the air stale. With his arms pinned to his side, John gripped at anything he could, fingers finding little purchase in the cotton shirt or leather trousers his captor wore. He might as well have been pulling at the stone floor for all the good it was doing him.

Eventually John tried to kick out with his feet and his foot collided with the creatures leg, causing a sharp gasp of pain from the monster carrying him. John felt a grim satisfaction and tried to kick out again, only to feel a sharp, excruciating pain in the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Hot, wet heat engulfed the aforementioned area and it took John a moment to realize that the thing was _biting him._

Those massive teeth were slicing into his shoulder, right over dangerous arteries and John knew that he if continued to squirm then it would only cause more damage. Damage that might actually kill him. He ceased all his movement, crying out with the pain as the beast held him immobile, like a cat with it's prey.

Only a few more quick strides brought them to a heavy iron door. John blinked blearily through the pain, watching as the monster pushed it open with merely a flick of his wrist. John gasped out as he felt the teeth extract and he was thrown unceremoniously to the cold stone floor. Hot, biting tears of pain spilled over his cheeks and he pushed a hand underneath himself, bringing another to his neck as he turned angrily to the door. Only to find it slamming shut with finality, leaving him alone on the damp dungeon floor.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **I'm sorry that this update is two days late. Updating will continue as planned on Friday.

Also, I may be transferring all of my work to AO3. I find that site much more agreeable; easier to navigate, cleaner and more visually attractive, and it's quickly growing in popularity. I encourage you to check it out, if you get the chance. Here is a link to my works- /users/BibliophileLove

**Chapter Three**

It had been hours, an unending amount of hours. John sat, sore and bleeding, on the hard stone floor. He had dozed for a while, unable to keep his eyes open, but it had to have been at least two days that he had been locked in the room, judging from the healing of his wounds. Two days without food or water, without medical attention, without any sign of help or even his monstrous _host. _

Without even a chamber pot, he had been forced to piss into the drain in the floor of the center of the room. That had been the first day. He hadn't felt the need to urinate in hours. It was not a good sign. The wound on his neck was festering, and John was quite positive it had become infected. Human mouths held all sorts of vile contaminants, he could only imagine what was in the mouth of that beast. The puncture wounds on his side had began to scab over, but were red and hot to the touch. He needed medical attention. Without it, he would die.

John was beginning to lose hope, beginning to think that he would indeed die in the horrid, empty room that he had been confined to. That his corpse would forever rot here, unattended and forgotten. How ironic that John had been afraid of living out the rest of his long life alone, with too much time on his hands and nothing to do with it. Well, that certainly didn't seem to be a problem anymore.

His body ached fiercely, his shoulder was stiff from lack of movement. In order to slow the flow of his blood in an attempt to not lose anymore than necessary, John had sat still on the floor, only moving if he absolutely had to. His reward had been that he lost the minimal amount of blood, as he had intended. But the punishment had been the stiffness in his body, his limbs refusal to operate as commanded. His body was shutting down.

After realizing that his captor had no intentions of setting him free anytime soon, John began to strive for sleep. His body needed rest, he needed to preserve his remaining strength for the moment that door finally opened, because when it did, John was going out of it, one way or another. With this determination set in mind, he slept fitfully. More hours passed uncounted as he dozed rigidly and without comfort.

He had no idea what time or even what day it was when he woke again, blinking slowly into consciousness and gritting his teeth at his own dead weight. Sharp pains caused his muscles to twitch violently as he lifted an arm, his right arm as the bite wound was on his left, and ran his hand over his stubbly face. His mind, so sluggish, took a few moments to notice that there was something different about the room.

An antique silver tray sat on the floor near the door, with a gleaming white porcelain tea pot and matching cup, a glass pitcher full of water, and a spotless white napkin folded elegantly, displaying a generous portion of bread and cheese. John blinked stupidly for a moment at the tray, before scrambling clumsily across the floor towards it. Forgoing the cup, he snatched up the pitcher of water and drank straight from the mouth of it, chastising himself for his haste when it spilled over the sides of his mouth and dribbled down his cheeks and neck.

He forced himself to put the pitcher down after he had drank half of it, and tore greedily into the bread and cheese. They were fresh and delicious, and John moaned at the taste. It nearly caused him physical pain to eat slowly, to not devour his small meal within seconds. His stomach cramped at the sudden assault, but John stubbornly ignored it's painful protests as he ate, reveling in the thought that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't die here after all.

Had the creature left his food here? He looked down at the shiny silver tray, free of nicks or scratches. Images of those giant claws flashed across John's vision. Surely that beast would have left some kind of mark. The tea pot was delicate, almost feminine. No, he hadn't anything to do with this. There must be someone else residing in the castle, someone who wanted to help him. John swallowed a thick bite of cheese as he felt hope bloom in his chest. Taking another generous swig of water, he swished the gifted liquid around in his mouth, chasing away the staleness of the last few days. His neck throbbed as his muscles pulled with the effort. If only they would leave him some medical supplies as well.

He finished off the rest of his meal and drank the rest of the water slowly. If he drank it all too quickly it would run straight through him and he would piss most of it out. In order for his body to absorb it better, he would have to pace himself. Groaning, he crawled back over to the wall with the pitcher of water and set it in his lap while he closed his eyes.

His stomach was full and bloated, sloshing uncomfortably as he situated himself. His neck was throbbing after so much movement. He felt slow and dumb, first from lack of nourishment, and now from too much so fast. Even though his body was well rested, it had been so abused that it was expending too much effort to heal itself, and now to digest the food he had eaten. As much as it bothered him, he needed sleep. He needed to rest, to preserve his energy.

John took another long gulp of water, feeling his breathing slow. He made a decision to sleep lightly, to be somewhat aware as he dozed so that he would know the next time the door was opened. If his secret ally came again, perhaps he could persuade him or her to smuggle him out of the castle, or at the very least procure some medical equipment so that he could tend to his wounds. His neck throbbed again insistently.

John sighed, letting his grip on the glass pitcher loosen. He kept his face towards the door and let himself shut down once again. It didn't take long. His body was so heavy, so sated after eating. The room was quiet, almost too quiet as he began to doze. He vaguely noted the beginning of pressure in his bladder before he was too deep under to care.

A distant roar woke John, jerking him out of his sleep with a start. He pushed himself off of the floor quickly, blood rushing to his head with the sudden movement. He stumbled and pressed a hand against the cold stone wall to steady himself. As his vision cleared, another deafening sound reverberated through the walls, causing the stone to tremble. A crash echoed somewhere in the castle, quickly accompanied by the sounds of glass shattering. The noise was distant, but loud, as it whatever had broken was massive. It continued to echo, as if more, smaller pieces were still being broken apart violently.

John breathed in quick, nervous bursts as he strained his ears, listening to whatever havoc was being wrecked throughout the castle. It could have only been the beast. From what John had seen, he had quite the temper. John imagined him breaking walls and and furniture, his massive clawed hands easily ripping wood and stone and glass apart. He wondered what had set him off.

Silence echoed for a few minutes and John sighed, clutching a hand to his chest to feel his own pounding heart. He ran his tongue over his teeth, grimacing at the sour taste in his mouth. Glancing around for the water pitcher, he groaned to see that whoever had brought him food had come again, and John hadn't woken.

Another silver tray, or perhaps it was the same one, sat silent and perfect on the stone floor by the door. This time it held not only the teapot, cup, and a fresh pitcher of water, but also more bread and cheese, along with a large meaty turkey leg. John felt his mouth salivate at the sight.

He walked over and ripped into the leg, juice sliding down his chin as he savored the taste. Exquisite. He ate with more confidence now, awareness permeating his mind as the adrenaline faded away. Who kept bringing him food, and how did they manage to not wake John? Did they happen to arrive when he was sleeping, or did they time their arriving with purpose? How did they know when he was sleeping?

John glanced around the room for the hundredth time. There were no windows, only the drain in the middle of the floor. There wasn't even a peephole in the door. There was no way they could know when he was sleeping. It had to be coincidence.

Next time they came, he would be awake and waiting for them. Sitting down with determination, he continued his meal in silence. With any luck, he would be out of the dungeon soon and free of the beast that had attacked him so brutally. He would have some stories to tell Mike, that was for sure!

Once he had devoured the food and drank his fill of the water, John used what remained in the pitcher to splash over his face, scrubbing furiously with his hands. After setting the glass carefully on the tray, he stood and relieved himself into the grate in the middle of the floor. He didn't piss much, and the dark color and sour smell screamed dehydration.

Sighing, he returned to his usual spot against the wall. His back complained as he slid gingerly down the stone, sitting upright once again, facing the door. As he settled in for the long wait, John pulled off his boots and tugged his trousers up, inspecting the bruises and healing cuts along his shins. There was one particularly nasty splotch of green and purple along the lower length of his left leg where his foot had gotten caught in a root.

His injuries seemed to be healing for the most part, however, even the shallow punctures over his ribcage. The scabs were starting to flake away, showing the irritated pink scar tissue underneath. The only major concern that he could detect was the bite wound, which pulsated viciously. He brought his hand up to it timidly, wincing at the hot, swollen flesh. He wished he had a mirror, so he could inspect it thoroughly and determine the damage. Moving his head side to side experimentally, he decided there should be no major damage, as long as the infection was treated soon.

Leaning his head back against the wall, he sighed, rolling his injured shoulder around, stretching the knotted scar of his gunshot wound, the one that had been responsible for his discharge from her majesties services. Without regular stretching and massaging, the tissue became hard and unyielding, restricting the use of his arm. After sitting so still for so long, it was stiff now, and painful. John continued to roll and stretch his shoulder to pass the time, bringing his hand up to rub the knot ruthlessly. He wanted to be unhindered when the time came.

The time passed slowly as he worked on his shoulder and stretched individual limbs. John couldn't be sure if it had been only an hour or half a day by the time he needed to piss again. He stood over the grate with his prick hanging out as he relieved himself, sighing in blissful contentment as he noticed his urine looked much healthier now. When he was finished, he slid back down the wall and crossed his arms over his chest, letting the back of his head fall back against the stone.

If only he had a book, or a knife and a piece of wood, hell, he'd even take some thread and a knitting needle at this point! The hours of simply waiting were taking their toll, and John was so incredibly bored. He began to pass the time by counting the number of stones in the wall. When he reached number four hundred and twenty seven, his eyes drifted closed and he dozed again.

He dreamed fitfully, violent memories resurfacing to torment him. The images were so vivid, he could _feel _the sand against his skin. He could _feel _the burn of the sun on his face. He could _hear _the gunshots, the screaming. When he felt the piercing pain of a bullet in his shoulder, he woke gasping, gripping at the scar and it's phantom pain. He blinked rapidly in the dim light, breathing heavily as he tried to gather his scattered wits.

The air was noticeably colder, the room was darker. John scrubbed a hand over his face irritatedly, cursing himself for falling asleep. His gaze wandered to the oil lamps on the walls, noticing the low amount of oil and the dying flames above. The room was barely lit at all.

John looked over to the floor by the door to see that it was now empty, the tray and pitcher had disappeared, and nothing had taken their place. Leaning forward, John placed his face in his hands and rubbed at his temples, then ran his fingers through his grimy hair. He hadn't washed in days, he must smell horrible.

He stood, pressing a hand into his lower abdomen as he tested his need to piss again. Just as he took a step towards the grate, a flash of light caught his attention. Snapping his face towards the flash, he noticed two pinpricks of silver in the corner of the room, hidden in the shadows created by the flickering fire. With a gasp, he watched as the small orbs disappeared, and reappeared rapidly. Not lights. _Eyes. _

John jumped, pressing his back rigidly against the opposite corner. Heart palpitating rapidly, he sucked in a staggered breath as the eyes watched him motionlessly. Judging by their height, John could only conclude that it was the beast, observing him silently from the dark corner. When had it snuck in? How long had John been asleep?

He watched as the eyes narrowed a fraction, iris's reflecting light from the fires like an animal. The creature made no move towards him, and after the initial shock faded, John's courage began to return to him. He sucked in another gulp of air to boost his resolve and spoke.

"Who are you? Why are you keeping me here?" He demanded, pleasantly surprised by the strength of his own voice. The eyes blinked at him again, studying him. When the words reached his ears, they were not at all what he expected.

"I would suggest that you reconsider your tone. You entered my home without invitation or permission. Am I to entertain the notion that you had no inclination to harm my person or expose my location?" So smooth and articulate was his speech, that John could not match the voice to the monster he had seen earlier. He squinted, trying to see the figure in the darkness.

"Wha- I woke up here! _You're_ the one who attacked _me_!" John found himself protesting indignantly. The eyes narrowed again, but the voice remained silent. "Look, I didn't mean to trespass or anything. I wasn't trying to attack you. If you just let me go, then we can both forget this ever happened." John finished, trying to keep his voice even and unthreatening. He watched warily as he waited for a response.

"Let you go?" The voice answered, a growling undertone now. John swallowed involuntarily. The eyes seemed to raise higher a few inches, a soft rustling sound could be heard from the dark corner. "Let you go, so you can scamper off and tell stories of the monster who haunts the castle in the north, the beast who attacked you?" The eyes narrowed again and John bristled as the voice growled ever lower, continuing. "_I think not_." He spat, rumbling as the rustling sound intensified.

"You can't keep me here forever!" John argued, taking a brave step away from the wall. It was a mistake.

"I am master of this castle, and I am inclined to do however I please. If I say you will rot in this dungeon, then _you will rot in this dungeon for the rest of your cursed existence_." The voice hissed at him, growing deeper with each word. Even through his fear and anger, John found himself fascinated by the creature and the change it seemed to experience with each passing second. He bit back his angry retort and took a deep, steadying breath as the eyes narrowed at him once again.

He paused, contemplating the best way to proceed. Arguing was obviously not doing him any good, perhaps he should try reasoning, or pleading with him. His hand twitched, aching to cover his neck, his flaring wound suddenly seemed exposed. He watched as those silver eyes flickered, following the minuscule movement. Reluctantly intrigued, John spoke again, with forced calm.

"Who are you?" He asked, silently praying that he would not set the beast off again. His question had the desired effect, and the creatures response was much more measured.

"Are you dim? I have just explained that I am the master of this estate." He growled, his voice not quite as rough as before.

"No, I mean your name." John requested again, more politely. His voice took on the tone he used to reassure his patients, his calm doctors voice. Perhaps he could reason with him after all.

"My name is of no consequence, and it will not matter to you. Why would you wish to know it?" The voice asked, returning to it's normal baritone once again. With increased interest, John continued.

"If you tell me your name, I'll tell you mine." He offered, making an effort to relax his posture and appear harmless. The eyes narrowed again and the voice hesitated before responding.

"My name is… Sherlock Holmes." He finally relented. A flicker of recognition ran through John's mind before he dismissed the notion, making a note to think upon it later.

"Nice to make your acquaintance Mr. Holmes. My name is John Watson." He said, bowing politely. The eyes narrowed again but he made no attempt to reciprocate the formality. No that he should have, as a lord. But some kind of attempt at civility would have been appreciated. John dismissed the slight and continued. "Perhaps we can discuss this unfortunate situation at length and come to a compromise." John offered, taking another hesitant step forward. "Would you care to come into the light so we can speak properly?"

"I see no reason why we can't speak as we are now. You do not need to lay eyes upon my face in order to hear my words." Came the reply, with an undertone of a growl. John backtracked, knowing that he had to keep that growl at bay.

"I merely meant that I am unaccustomed to speaking to shadows, is all. Perhaps we could go somewhere and sit down properly and have a nice discussion? I would love to hear more about your castle. It is quite magnificent, from what I was able to see." John persuaded gently. The creature made no inclination that he would respond, only studied John with those piercing, glowing eyes, which appeared to have lowered again. On a whim, John attempted again. "Step into the light, sir. I have already looked upon your face, I will not be shocked." He tried gently, as though speaking to a child. The eyes narrowed and stilled while John waited with baited breath, before he heard a shuffling from the shadows that set his heart pounding once again.

Black leather boots came into his view first, unusually large, so large that they simply had to have been custom made to fit for the… person before him. They were slightly misshapen, as the rest of him had been when John had first set eyes upon him. He doubted the feet they contained were shaped like human feet. His legs came into view next, normal if a little thin. They were long and lean, as was the torso they were attached to. But it was the head, shoulders, and hands that were the most deformed.

His shoulders were wide, with dark ridges visible under his thin white shirt, as though black bone protruded like spines. Similar spines extended from his head, rolling away from his head like untamed hair, with two slightly longer horn like appendages rising out and dominating from just above his temples. His ears were human like in shape, but darkened near the tip. They bristled under John's scrutiny, reminding John of the way a cat would flatten it's ear's when feeling threatened.

His arms were impossibly long, sharp points standing out at the elbow and wrists. The knuckles of his elongated hands were large and darkened, curved claws extending from the tips of his fingers. They flexed upon his inspection, causing John's gaze to dart back up to his face.

A dark patina of gemlike scales coated most of his skin, leaving the hollow of his throat and his face bare. That face, that had been so strangely formed only days ago, was surprisingly normal now. A long straight nose, bow shaped lips tightened with strain, an arrogant brow and the sharpest eyes that John had ever seen. He was held immobile by those eyes, unable to look away now that he had been caught by their gaze.

He was, in all, the most striking creature that John had ever seen.

"If you're quite finished." He said, sneering arrogantly. John dropped his gaze, flushing with a fleeting feeling of shame before looking back up to Lord Holmes's face.

"Forgive me, my lord. I've never encountered anyone like yourself before. I didn't mean to stare." John spoke with complete sincerity. He actually found himself… fascinated.

From a physician's point of few, Lord Holmes _was_ fascinating. John found himself wondering if the… spines… were actually bone, and what his skeletal structure must be like. He found himself longing to run hands over the planes of his body to satisfy his curiosity. One look at his host's face supplied the notion that his interest would most certainly not be welcome.

"I will consider your request Doctor Watson. In the meantime, you will remain in this room until I see fit to release you. I expect I will see you soon. Good evening." Lord Holmes spoke, his smooth voice distracting John momentarily from the meaning of his words. John started, noticing how his host seemed to be withdrawing. His eyes, though staring straight at John, appeared unseeing as he took a step back, closer to the door.

"No, wait! You can't just leave me in here, please!" John pleaded suddenly, reluctant to part from his strange host. Reluctant to be alone again. He took a step forward without intending to, reaching out towards him. Lord Holmes withdrew sharply away from John's outstretched hand, narrowing his eyes dangerously. Chastened, John lowered his gaze apologetically, speaking to the floor. "Please." He requested again, the word twisting uncomfortably out of his mouth.

He looked up as he noticed movement, watching those dark claws wrap deftly around the metal handle in the dungeons' door. His gaze swept desperately up to Lord Holmes's face and watched as those piercing silver blue eyes flickered over him again before he wordlessly swung open the door and departed with one quick movement, slamming the door behind him with enough force to rattle the stone walls around him.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Again, I know it's not Friday. I am so sorry. I'm having trouble setting up the hotspot from my phone at home, so I'm currently sitting at Barnes and Noble on my iPad in order to upload chapters. I'm not sure if I'll be able to upload every Monday and Friday as I had originally planned, but I WILL upload at least once a week, even if I have to drag my giant iMac out of the house to do it. I apologize again for the delay. Hope to see you soon. Enjoy!

Chapter Four

It had taken John hours of reflection to realize that Lord Holmes had called him Doctor Watson. _Doctor_. John had made no mention of being a doctor. How had he known? And furthermore, exactly _what was_ Lord Sherlock Holmes? He was obviously human, or used to be, or was part human, or something or other. He had a man's face, a man's voice. Well, sometimes he had a man's voice. Sometimes… it could barely be considered a voice at all.

And how was one supposed to explain his shape changing? His form was constantly shifting, grotesque features becoming more pronounced while his more human features would… But wait… that wasn't entirely true, was it? If he was being honest with himself, John truthfully found none of Lord Holmes's features to be grotesque or unflattering. He was most certainly different, but the strangeness of his physique intrigued John, rather than repelled him. The urge to study him, to examine him was nearly overwhelming. Now that the initial fear had faded, all that was left was… morbid fascination.

They had spoken enough for John to come to the conclusion that Lord Holmes, while clearly inhuman, had the ability for civilized conversation. Even though his temperament was still questionable, he was not the monster that John had originally thought. He was intelligent. And appeared to be extremely wary of John's intentions.

Considering their situation from Lord Holmes's point of view, John found that he could understand his caution. If people knew who, or what, lived in this castle, he couldn't imagine they wouldn't storm the very gates and burn the entire structure to the ground. Lord Holmes had no way of knowing John's true intentions.

But what were his intentions? Was the Lord really dangerous? _Should_ John escape at the first available opportunity and run for the nearest town, screaming at the top of his lungs? No, most certainly not. Their first meeting had been nothing but the outcome of fear and misconstrued intentions. If John had turned to find an intruder in his home, he certainly would have reacted violently as well. He couldn't fault the Lord for that.

His other option was to stay, to let the events play out and witness for himself the exact nature of Lord Holmes. John immediately found this option to be the more agreeable one. He _wanted_ to remain. He _wanted_ to learn about the Lord and how he had come to be the creature that he was. He wanted…

He wanted his bloody neck to stop throbbing so painfully! Wincing, he brought a hand up to the tender flesh. The infection was setting in now. He would need to discuss medical supplies immediately with the Lord upon his return. Assuming he would return. John found himself believing he would. He had said he would, after all.

More calm and collected than he had been since before his meeting with Mike an uncounted amount of days ago, John felt that he had made a rational decision. The Lord was a mystery, the likes of which he had never encountered before. John had always had a secret love for mysteries, and he knew he would stay to unravel his latest interest. He would have to gently urge the Lord to trust him. It would probably prove to be quite the challenge. John doubted the Lord had many, if any, confidants. He was surely lonely.

Just as John was lonely. Perhaps they could even make a tentative move towards friendly acquaintances and keep up regular correspondence, once John left. He sighed, trying to keep himself from becoming overly hopeful. It might come to be that the Lord Holmes was a horrible, unsocial, uncaring beast of a man. It would all remain to be seen.

Groaning, John rose from his sitting position, deciding to take a turn about the room to stretch his neglected legs. He began to pace, to wonder what time it was and when the Lord would return. He was getting damn tired of the dungeon.

He was just getting ready to lower himself back onto the floor as he heard a noise outside the massive wooden door. The rhythm of his heartbeat picked up immediately in nervous anticipation as he heard a bolt slide out of it's well oiled lock. The door swung inward slowly, and John could only make out the outline of the Lord Holmes, as the firelight of the lamps where to his back. His long form was still as flashing eyes regarded him, John found himself holding his breath.

Instead of speaking, the Lord took a step back, holding his arm out in a gesture for John to step forward and out of the room. With an incredible sense of relief, John stepped cautiously forward, his eyes darting from the silent figure to the hallway beyond.

He tried to steal furtive glances of his host, but he seemed adept at using every shadow to his advantage. The only part of his form that John could see clearly were his flashing silver eyes, narrowed in sharp observation as John walked out of the dungeon room and into the dimly lit hall. John took a hesitant lead, walking down the hallway in the direction that the Lord had gestured, his footsteps echoing loudly in the narrow space. The Lord made no noise behind him as he followed.

They walked for an unknown length of time, up staircases and down more hallways, each room growing brighter and more alive as they moved through the immense castle. John paused at every turn, allowing the Lord Holmes to direct him as he wished. They were completely silent. John longed to speak, but feared to push his luck when events were going so well.

Finally, after traveling what seemed to be nearly the entire length of the estate, John found himself in a familiar room. The long windows stretched high up towards the ceiling, overlooking the gardens below. John received the first glimpse of sky he had seen in days. It was dark once again, but early morning judging by the beginnings of an orange glow on the horizon.

The light was barely enough to brighten the large room, but John turned before making the conscious decision to do so, eagerly looking towards his host in an attempt to see him more clearly. At first, he thought the Lord Holmes had abandoned him on the landing, but upon closer inspection he was to be found lingering by the staircase on the far side of the room, as far from the windows as he could manage.

He was yards away, and John gaped, wondering how in the blazes he had managed to retreat so far so quickly, and without making the slightest sound. Those silver eyes were narrowed dangerously, long black claws were draped over the banister, glinting in the low light. It seemed to John that the Lord purposefully kept to the shadows so that John could not look upon him. He knew not why, as he had already seen him hours ago.

The confusion must have shown on John's face, because the Lord's low voice sounded, answering his unspoken question.

"I am not used to having others gaze upon me, Doctor Watson. It causes me discomfort. Surely you are intelligent enough to understand my reasons without me having to explain." His low voice, with a subtle undercurrent tone of mocking, set a chill over his skin. John opened his mouth in surprise, but didn't speak. Instead, he stepped slowly closer to the Lord. He could hear that strange rustling sound again.

It appeared that the Lord was self conscious, or ashamed of his appearance, quite possibly both. John found this very telling, likely that he had not always been this way, but had been changed into whatever he was at some point in his life. It was clearly not a change he was happy with.

Did this mean that he was human, once? As John moved closer, he was able to see the Lord's face. His eyes were narrowed, his once again human mouth was drawn in a tight line. The skin over his face was pale, and there were lines around his eyes. Lines formed from anger and sorrow, not smiles and laughter. What had his life been, for him to be jaded so?

And even as John studied him, his face changed again. The thin line of his lips drew back, showing those sharp, inhuman teeth. The dark, hard scales around his jaw grew more pronounced, seemed to grow up along each side of his face and down his neck. The spines over his head and shoulders bristled, raising up like a cat's hairs when they hissed and clawed. His hand tightened over the banister, claws scraping over the polished wood.

He seemed angry with John, and it took John a moment of nervous gaping to realize why. Of course. He had just explained that he was uncomfortable with John's scrutiny, and here John was ogling him like a man overcome. John immediately looked away, staring at the floor between them as he rushed to apologize.

"I am terribly sorry. I… I don't mean to make you uncomfortable." He amended, not daring to look up again. The strange rustling nose slithered along his skin softly, taunting him as he waited for the Lord's response.

"You are not to enter the West Wing of the estate. You are not to go outside. A room has been prepared for you at the top of the stairs, third door on your right." John jerked his head up at the rough words, unsure of whether he wanted to complain about the limitations to his freedom or thank the Lord for allowing him nearly complete free roam of the enormous castle. Upon catching sight of his face, John gasped, taking in the elongated jaw and scales over his nose and cheeks. He looked like some sort of beast… almost like… a dragon.

When the Lord spoke again, his voice was a deep, grating growl.

"I will come fetch you again when you have had ample time to recouperate and we will discuss your stay. Do not try to leave. If you do…" John waited, eyes wide as the Lord considered him. "I will kill you." Without giving John time to respond, he turned sharply and disappeared behind the staircase, into a door hidden in shadow.

John stood rooted to the spot, unable to believe his situation. He had been prepared to stay, to obey the demands of the Lord Holmes if nothing more than to assure him of his safety and his continued residence uninterrupted. He thought he had made his agreeable intentions clear.

Now he was angry from being threatened and treated like a prisoner. He was offended that the Lord would think him so cowardly as to try to escape after he had said that he would not. He had been pursued and attacked and wounded severely, and even after his abysmal treatment, he had been prepared to be civil with the _beast_ who held him against his will.

And now to be threatened in such a way! John huffed angrily, setting his shoulders in a rigid line as he marched stiffly up the stairs. He was barely paying attention to his feet as he marched, fuming silently as he came to the door that had been prepared for him. He opened it without thinking, stepping into the room and slamming it shut with as much force as he could muster.

The noise was loud and echoed deeply throughout the stone, giving John a start and cause to take a deep breath, clearing the cloud of anger from his mind. He paused, closing his eyes as he tried to calm himself, hand still on the door. When he finally turned to view the room, he gasped.

It was even larger and grander than the first one he had woken in. He could have fit his entire cabin inside of it, twice. A massive fireplace sat as a centerpiece in the opposite wall, a fire roaring warmly in it's heart. An enormous four poster bed was set against the wall to his right, thick furs and intricately woven quilts draped over it's surface. A sitting area was set up to his left, with a knotted oak table and two high backed chairs placed on each side, their dark leather glowing in the firelight.

But it wasn't the furniture or the cleanliness or the warmth of the room that caught John's attention and held it so effortlessly. A large copper tub had been placed in the middle of the floor, full of water so hot that a steady stream of steam rose from it's surface. A small table sat next to it, on which was placed ample medical supplies and wrappings. He walked over, stunned to find everything he needed and more. Even a hand mirror had been left, along with the familiar silver tray that had been placed on the floor for him in the dungeon. A plate of boiled eggs, bread and fresh berries waited for him, along with the usual glass pitcher of water and porcelain tea pot and matching cup.

John could only stand and gape at the table, the dying stirrings of anger evaporating completely. Had the Lord Holmes done this? John picked up the mirror with unsteady fingers, his own wide eyed reflection stared back at him. John had been so preoccupied with his host that he hadn't even thought to request the supplies for his wounds. But here they were. John swallowed thickly. How… unusual.

He angled the mirror downward, inspecting the bite wound on his neck. It was red and angry, and sensitive to the touch. The skin had started to heal together in the wrong places, John grimaced as he realized he would have to cut through the healed skin and reopen the wound, scrub it clean, then stitch it back together.

Sighing, he set the mirror back on the table and dipped a finger tentatively into the water in the tub. It was hot, but not so hot that it would burn him. Carefully, he started removing his clothes and dropping them into a pile on the floor. When he was stark naked, He lifted himself into the tub and groaned as the hot water pricked at his skin. The tub was long enough for him to stretch out completely, resting his feet against the opposite edge as leaned back leisurely. The water came up to his armpits, soaking into his battered body and soothing him immensely.

He stayed motionless for a long time, enjoying the warmth and comfort of a hot bath. Calm once more, his attention wandered back to his enigmatic host. What was he doing now? Working in that strange chemists lab again? He wondered if he could find it, if he took to looking. Was he even allowed, or was that the West Wing that had been forbidden to him?

What had be been working on anyway? There had been so much equipment, had he been an educated man before his… transformation? Perhaps there had been an accident in his lab, and that was the reason he was so altered. The image of the Lord's strangely scaled skin crept across his thoughts. How intriguing his form was to John, the idea of thoroughly inspecting his being was titillating. John wanted to see those strange bony spines on his head, to see how they moved with each emotion and expression, to touch them and see if they felt as smooth as they looked.

And those hands, those claws! John winced at the memory of them puncturing his torso. Terrifying as they were, John longed to inspect them. To feel the bones underneath the skin, to examine the joints as they flexed underneath his touch.

And his feet were obviously altered also, if the shape of his boots were to be any indication. Were they clawed and scaled as well? And what about the rest of the Lord's body? The only part of him that seemed occupied by human skin was his face, neck and upper forearms. What of the rest of him? How interesting the Lord's anatomy must be!

John continued to wonder about the strangeness of the Lord's obscure body until the water started to cool. Not wanting to catch a chill, he scrubbed at his skin to remove all of the dirt and grime before gently washing his neck. Once he finished, he climbed out of the tub and grabbed his clothes from the floor, dropping them into the murky water and scrubbing them with his hands. After he was satisfied that they were, if not entirely clean then at least not completely filthy, he hung them over the fireplace to dry.

He then walked nude across the room to the leather armchairs and took hold of one, dragging it across the room and to the table near the fire. Sifting through the supplies on the table, he found the small silver knife he would need to reopen his wounds, along with a thick antiseptic cream in a glass jar. Propping the mirror up against the jar so that he could see his wound, John took a deep breath, wishing he had a large bottle of whiskey, before he he got to work.

It took nearly an hour of shouting and cursing to cut open the inflamed flesh, another half hour of crying and scrubbing the raw, bleeding skin, and another hour of sharp breaths and vulgar insults to his host, his own shaking hands, the lack of stronger drugs, and God above before he finished sewing himself back together, weak and covered in a sheen of sweat. He applied a generous amount of antiseptic before finally wrapping a bandage around his entire neck to guard from infection. His whole body ached with renewed fervor, as if he had suffered the entire ordeal all over again.

His stomach rolled from the pain, and he was unable to bear the thought of eating. Shaking and exhausted, and wishing once again for a large bottle of whiskey, John fell into the bed still naked, sprawled unashamedly across it as his eyes fluttered shut. Though he was sure it was sometime late morning, he gave in to his exhaustion, his knotted muscles finally relaxing as he fell under, oblivious of the world around him


	5. Chapter 5

Since I'm having so many problems with my internet and not being able to get online, I will no longer be updating this story on this website. All of the new chapters will be posted on Archive of our Own, since it's much easier to update there and the website itself it quite beautiful, I encourage you to check it out. My screen name is BibliophileLove.

/users/BibliophileLove

Chapter Five of The Soldier and the Dragon has already been posted, please swing by and check it out. And as always, please review! Thank you. 3


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